


How It All Started

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Civil Partnership, First Time, M/M, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how John and Sherlock ended up in a relationship. By accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It All Started

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [一切從此開始](https://archiveofourown.org/works/568165) by [EEKWGERMANY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EEKWGERMANY/pseuds/EEKWGERMANY)
  * Translation into Polski available: [Jak to wszystko się zaczęło](https://archiveofourown.org/works/675885) by [chupaChak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chupaChak/pseuds/chupaChak)



> I'd like to think this isn't like all the other "they're accidentally dating" fics, but I'll let the readers judge.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Find a typo? Tell me about it!
> 
> Now available in Polish: [Here!](http://chupa-chakowa-kanapa.blogspot.com/2012/11/tekst-nz-jak-to-wszystko-sie-zaczeo-213.html)
> 
> Now available in Russian: [Here!](http://ficbook.net/readfic/500118)
> 
> UPDATE: I can't believe it, but someone did a cover for this fic! [Check it out here!](http://ladunya.deviantart.com/art/How-It-All-Started-363092244?q=gallery%3Aladunya&qo=0) It's done by the amazing Ladunya over on deviantART, and I encourage everyone to go check out her Sherlock fan art.

**1.**

It started, logically enough, when John stopped dating. Sherlock was the first to notice.

“You know, John,” he said one night after three hours of blessed silence. “You haven’t had a date in over a month. Usually, you entertain various women at least twice a week.”

John ignored the implication on his supposed promiscuity and rolled his eyes. Sherlock had his nose buried in a forensics text, but they both knew he saw it. “Yes well, I decided it would be doing London a favor, wouldn’t it? None of them can quite deal with you, half of them think we’re shagging and the other half are tired of being ignored. Best to just leave off it for a while, I figure.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally and dropped the subject. John went back to watching his program on the telly and Sherlock continued reading his book. Just like any other night.

After another hour or so, Sherlock closed the book and laid it in his lap. “How do you feel about take away?” He asked. “My treat.”

“Sounds good,” John said, his eyes not leaving the TV. “Indian?”

“As you wish.” Sherlock walked into the kitchen and opened up the menu drawer, immediately finding the one from John’s favorite curry house. He picked up the phone and ordered for them both. Naturally, he already knew John’s favorite.

When the food arrived, they both sat on the couch. Sherlock pretended to watch whatever science fiction film John was currently in to and didn’t say too much about the impossibilities or historical anachronisms when the hero got sucked into a time vortex and dropped in 1866.

 

 

**2.**

Next, it was a simple slip on a wet patch.

John started to pitch over, but Sherlock’s hand in the crook of his elbow caught him. Righting the other man, Sherlock smiled. “Be careful,” he said. John smiled back.

As they walked the rest of the way home, Sherlock did not let go of John’s crooked elbow. Neither mentioned it.

 

 

**3.**

When Scotland Yard started to notice, they were at a surprise birthday party for Lestrade. John had gotten the gift, as Sherlock had no clue the party was happening. He was actually a little disappointed that John’s insistence they go down to NSY to see if they had any cases was just a ruse to get him to the party.

Lestrade opened the gift from John and Sherlock. Inside the slim box, he found a pair of beautiful motorcycle gloves, hand stitched, made of the softest leather he’d ever touched. “Thanks guys,” he smiled up at John and Sherlock. Most of the people on his team didn’t even know he had a motorbike, so something useful for his hobby was very much appreciated. “These are great.”

“We’re glad you like them,” John smiled and took a drink.

He’d done it before. Referred to himself and Sherlock in the plural. This is our flat, our case, we’re out of milk. Though, for some reason, this _we_ seemed different.

Greg’s eyes darted over to Sherlock quickly, to see if the detective had noticed. Judging by the way he continued texting (and just who was he texting? he and John were both right there…) Sherlock didn’t notice. Dare Lestrade go as far as to say he didn’t care because he thought it normal?

Funnily enough, it was Sherlock who broke the awkward silence that fell over the party. “Sorry Lestrade,” he said, still not looking at him. “Must dash,” he dropped his chin and looked at John. “Mycroft has a case. One of those Queen and Country bits,” he rolled his eyes.

John smiled up at him, already pulling his coat on. “But it sounds interesting, so you can’t say no.”

“Yes,” Sherlock growled between tight lips.

They said goodbye to everyone (well, John said goodbye) and left the party. When they were gone, Greg did his best to make everyone forget about what they’d just seen. It really was nothing…

 

 

**4.**

When Sherlock started to suspect something, John was stitching up his arm. Somehow (he wouldn’t go into specifics) Sherlock had managed to cut himself on a wire fence. John assumed it was during a chase, so he didn’t ask for more information. He just stitched up Sherlock’s arm and returned to his medical bag, extracting a syringe.

Sherlock groaned. “Honestly John, a tetanus shot?”

John ignored that as he swiped the alcohol pad over Sherlock’s bicep to clean the area for the shot. “Two words: wire fence. What are wires made of?”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock said, his voice already sinking down to that petulant tone he used when he felt like John was over doctoring him.

“Then you know this is necessary. Just hold still and it’ll be over in a second.” John said.

Using his fingers, he pinched the skin of Sherlock’s arm and jabbed the needle in. Sherlock absolutely did not wince… he might’ve turned away so he didn’t have to look at the too familiar sight. John—as always—said nothing.

Just as promised, it was over in a second. “See?” John smiled as he chucked the needle into the biohazard bin Sherlock had in the kitchen. He’d complained about its arrival, thinking that it signaled Sherlock’s getting into more hazardous experiments, but John actually used it more than the detective did.

He put a plaster over the spot and smiled up at Sherlock. “Not so bad, right?”

“It still hurts,” Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder. He still refused to look at John for the insult that his body was somehow not good enough to fight off tetanus on its own.

“Alright,” and with that, John leaned forward and placed a small kiss against the spot just above the plaster. On Sherlock’s bare arm. When he pulled back, Sherlock was finally looking at him again. He gave him another smile. “Better?”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Good,” John nodded and stood up from the table. He started cleaning up the suture materials, the bloody gauze and everything else, he stuck everything in the biohazard bin before he started making tea. “That cut was shallow, so those can probably come out in a day or two. But no more cases until then, alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, not really listening at all. He was too busy wondering if the skin John had kissed was actually warmer than the rest of him, or if his mind was just making him think that it was. He found that he didn’t care.

 

 

**5.**

The first time they spent the night together, John had just had a nightmare.

These days, his nightmares were few and far between, but after they finished a case that had hit too close to an old trigger, John was more prone to fitful sleeping. This one was particularly bad.

Sherlock was down in the sitting room, tuning his violin, when he heard it. A shout from the upstairs bedroom, followed by some panicked moaning, and finally a thump. John had fallen out of the bed. Sherlock wanted to go check on him, but he knew that would probably make it worse. John’s pride made him difficult to deal with directly after a nightmare. Best give him a few minutes to collect himself.

He didn’t wait for John to appear because he knew he wouldn’t without a reason, so Sherlock just started playing. He knew what John liked—even if John didn’t—and started with Tchaikovsky. Personally, he found those works overly florid and too whimsical for his tastes, but John always smiled when Sherlock played Tchaikovsky, which is perhaps why he started playing it. He began with _Waltz of the Flowers_ , a particular favorite of John’s.

Not even a minute into the piece and Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs. Leaning more heavily to the left, minding his right. The nightmare must have brought up the memories of pain, so John’s psychosomatic responses flared up again. They’d be gone by morning, but right now he was in pain. Psychosomatic pain was still pain.

John walked into the sitting room, the duvet from his bed wrapped around him tightly. He lingered at the door for a minute, watching Sherlock sway with the music. Sherlock didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. After another moment, John sat down on the couch and continued listening until the piece was done. Sherlock started up another— _Pas de Deux_ from the same ballet—and kept playing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John resting his head on the arm of the sofa, his eyes already drifting closed again.

Sherlock finished out the piece and started one more, just to be sure. By the time he’d finished the third, John’s breathing had evened out. Carefully returning his violin to the case and putting it away properly, Sherlock turned to the couch. Without a word, John lifted one half sleeping arm and raised the duvet. It was a clear invitation.

Sherlock climbed onto the couch and laid on top of John’s chest, wrapping his long arms around the older man’s back. The sofa was barely big enough for the two of them sitting on it properly, but somehow, this worked. They fit together without the smallest bit of effort. John brought his arm back down to cover them both with the duvet and gave Sherlock a squeeze.

They fell asleep before there was ever a need to say anything.

 

 

**6.**

Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning when she let herself in to hoover. She didn’t say a word about it because it was nothing new to her, just confirming what she already knew.

 

 

**7.**

The first time Sherlock tried to mention it, he’d just been shot. Not badly, just a graze or two. Didn’t mean that John wasn’t properly worried like any other doctor would be.

“You know that the only reason the hospital discharged you was because you were being too much of an ass for the nurses to deal with?” John said as he bustled around Sherlock’s room, getting together any supplies Sherlock might need (water bottles, extra pillows, the latest forensics and medical journals) and supplies he would need (gauze, rubber gloves, rubbing alcohol).

“I thought it was because I had a doctor at home who could take care of me better than any idiot Bart’s could throw out?” Sherlock smirked, already thumbing through the stack of journals. There was an interesting article about putrefaction in there somewhere.

“You remember that I was trained at Bart’s, right?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “And then sent to Afghanistan where you treated bullet wounds on a fairly regular basis.” He gestured down to his ribs, where the injuries were. “I have bullet wounds, and you seem to be somewhat of a specialist. More capable hands, I could not find.”

“Is this a joke to you?” John growled. The roll of gauze held in his hand bore the brunt of his anger, since he couldn’t actually smack Sherlock. “You got _shot_ , Sherlock.”

“Grazed,” he corrected.

“By a bullet!” John hissed. He couldn’t look at Sherlock for a moment and turned his head away, focusing on the supplies he’d gathered. “I’ve never once asked you to be more careful on a case. Never asked you to stop doing anything. All I ask is that you think about how you getting shot—” Sherlock opened his mouth “—fine, _grazed_. But think about how it affects me, Sherlock.”

Things were quiet for a moment as Sherlock put John’s words together to understand what he was really trying to say. “You were shot,” he said quietly. “And it ended your military career.” John’s jaw tightened in something that wasn’t anger and it took another moment for Sherlock to identify: pain. “You loved being a soldier. You wouldn’t trade our life for the world, but sometimes you miss it. And…” this was where Sherlock’s brain stalled. He wasn’t good at all this emotional nonsense. Another look at John and he got his answer: “And, you’re afraid that if I get hurt and am unable to continue my job, that it’ll be worse for me than it was for you.”

“Yes,” John sighed. “Everytime we have a close call like this… it makes me worry a little bit more.” More silence, more final this time. John had said what he needed to, and Sherlock had heard him. Message received.

John unfroze and returned the squashed roll of gauze to the pile of medical supplies. After a few more minutes of seeing to Sherlock, he walked into the bathroom and returned wearing a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Without another word, John climbed into the other side of Sherlock’s bed.

He’d expected to have to explain how—with Sherlock injured as he was—he might need John in the night, so sleeping upstairs was impractical. It was just for a few nights, until John deemed Sherlock sufficiently healed. But he didn’t need to explain, because Sherlock didn’t ask or protest. He just rolled over onto his good side and wrapped his arm around John’s stomach.

“John?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes of relative quiet. “Are we…”

John waited for Sherlock to finish that sentence; he wasn’t usually one to let thoughts trail like that. When he didn’t continue speaking, John met his eyes in the darkness. “Are we what?” He asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nevermind. It’s not relevant. Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” John said, and closed his eyes. He had a sense he knew what Sherlock was trying to ask, and he was right: it wasn’t relevant.

Neither was it relevant that a few nights turned into almost every night.

 

 

**8.**

When they hit the point of no return, it happened by accident.

As usual, Sherlock was making a mess in the kitchen. Standing at the worktop, he had a whole line of Petri dishes laid out before him, adding drops of some liquid one at a time with an eyedropper. Usually, John didn’t care about Sherlock’s experiments, not as long as he cleaned up after himself when he was finished (which he mostly did) but right now, John needed something from the cupboard that Sherlock was standing in front of.

“Sherlock,” he nudged the taller man’s hip. “Budge over for a second, I need to get my toolbox from the bottom cupboard.”

“John,” oh no, it was Sherlock’s _patient_ voice, the one he used when he had an extreme lack of patience. “I need to add the drops to these mold cultures at very precise times. I cannot ‘budge over for a second,’ without ruining the experiment. You’ll just have to wait.”

John rolled his eyes. “I can’t wait. I promised Mrs. Hudson I’d fix her oven door today, and my toolbox is under there. Just, I don’t know, spread your legs for a minute.” Not waiting for Sherlock’s response, John crouched down to the kitchen floor, one hand resting on the man’s hip for balance. Forcing his way between Sherlock’s long legs, John opened the cupboard door and pulled out his toolbox with his free hand. He slid it out onto the floor behind them before standing up. “See?” He said. “That wasn’t so hard.”

It was only then that he noticed it was. Well, Sherlock was.

Experiment apparently forgotten, Sherlock stood stock still at the counter. One hand holding the dropper, the other hovering near the newly risen bulge at the front of his trousers, as if he was torn between hiding it and touching it. The soft material under John’s fingers suddenly felt hotter than hot as Sherlock’s skin flushed. The most attractive blush appeared on that long neck.

All thought flew out of John’s brain as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s neck. That only made Sherlock blush harder and his trousers tighten. John at least had enough self-control not to thrust his own bulging trousers into Sherlock’s backside.

He pulled his lips away from the now-feverish skin and cleared his throat. “I have to go fix her oven,” he said, voice already rough with desire. “But I won’t be long. Finish your experiment and then we can, uh… talk.” John couldn’t resist placing one last kiss on that beautiful neck before grabbing his toolbox and walking out of the flat.

By the time Sherlock remembered that he was conducting an experiment, it was already ruined. For some reason, he didn’t really care.

 

 

**9.**

John returned to the flat to find Sherlock sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest. In order to give himself a moment, John walked into the kitchen and put away his toolbox. When that didn’t take long enough, he stood there and took a few deep breaths before returning to the sitting room.

Stopping in front of the sofa, John cleared his throat. “Sherlock. If you want to just—”

“John?” Sherlock interrupted. He looked up, his eyes locking with John’s. Slowly, he pulled his legs away from his chest and planted his feet on the floor. John could clearly see what Sherlock was trying to show him: he was still hard. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Right,” John nodded, his voice barely a whisper.

Sherlock reached up and wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist, tugging him down. And down John went. He crawled into Sherlock’s lap, instantly pressing their lips together.

All things considered, there wasn’t much preamble to this kiss. But then again, there was.

 

 

**10.**

Their first time, they’d been mostly sharing a bed for months.

They didn’t usually kiss like this in bed (lest it pull them too far into a place Sherlock was not ready for) but they were still trying to work off the adrenaline of a chase earlier that night. They thought it would be easier to fall asleep if they were already in a bed. It wasn’t.

John’s hands gripped possessively to Sherlock’s hips as they kissed, open-mouthed and wet. Sherlock broke away and started trailing little kisses down John’s neck just the way he liked and thrust his hips forward, their still-clothed cocks grinding against each other.

“John,” Sherlock groaned against the man’s neck. “Touch me,” his hips thrust again and he gasped. “Please.”

John’s movements stilled and he looked up at Sherlock. “Are you sure?” He asked. He wanted it to happen too (obviously) but… they’d never talked about it. And John always thought Sherlock would want to talk before they did, if they ever even got there.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded and gave another shove with his hips. “Touch me please.”

Grabbing tight to Sherlock’s pelvis, John rolled them over so he was on top. If he was thinking about holding himself steady, he would be less worried about his own pleasure. Sherlock had to go first. His reaction would dictate how they continued with this.

He pulled Sherlock’s pajama pants down until his cock sprang free. “Christ,” John whispered. He’d seen it before. They lived together, shared a bathroom and a bedroom most of the time, so of course he’d seen it. But now, like this, it was… different. Better.

It took all of John’s self control to keep from grabbing and stroking as fast as he could until Sherlock exploded. He had to go slow with this. He wanted Sherlock to enjoy it.

So when he wrapped his hand around that warm, hard cock, they both groaned. Sherlock’s hands flew up to hold onto John’s shoulders. “John,” he moaned.

“I’ve got you.” John whispered back, leaning forward and pressing kisses to every bit of Sherlock he could reach. His cheeks, his lips, his neck, shoulders. “You’re beautiful like this,” he said. “So fucking beautiful.”

A few more strokes was all it took for Sherlock to explode. As he watched Sherlock ride out his orgasm, John couldn’t help himself. He started rutting against Sherlock’s thigh until he couldn't hold back any longer.

Tangled together in a sticky mass of limbs, they both feel asleep with smiles on their faces.

 

 

**11.**

When Sherlock tried to talk about it again, John was in the hospital.

“Just a concussion,” the doctor said as she showed Sherlock John’s scans. “But, given his medical and military history, we want to keep him overnight for observation.”

“I can watch him just fine at home,” Sherlock was really trying to keep his voice under control, and having some success. His body, however, refused to cooperate. Every nervous jitter, and the way his eyes kept darting towards John’s scans and x-rays telegraphed his mood: panic.

“Mr. Holmes,” the doctor smiled softly. “We’ll take good care of him here.”

In a rare moment of weakness, Sherlock suddenly couldn’t hold back the reason for his fears. “I don’t want to leave him alone for the night. We haven’t spent a night apart in…” God, he couldn’t even remember how long.

“You can stay with him,” she said. “Civil partners have the same visitation rights as married couples.”

Sherlock dragged his gaze away from the x-rays. But, they weren’t, it was just—no, no. He shouldn’t say. If her assuming allowed him to stay with John, he shouldn’t correct her mistake. Was it even a mistake?

“Yes,” he nodded. “Thank you,” coat flapping behind him, Sherlock turned and walked back to John’s room.

He walked into the room just as the nurse was leaving. She smiled up at him. “I was just checking on him. He should be alright to sleep for now, but I’ll be back in to wake him in a few hours.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded again. “Thank you.” As soon as the woman left, Sherlock collapsed into the chair next to the bed and grabbed for John’s hand. “John?” He asked.

Two sleepy eyes opened to smile up at him. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock tried to smile, but John could see that he was barely holding it together. “Where would I be without my blogger?”

John just smiled and closed his eyes again.

A few minutes later, Sherlock spoke. “John?” He asked.

“Mm? Yes, what is it?” Sherlock could hear the sleep in his voice, and really, he should let John rest, but…

“Are we… in a relationship?” He asked.

John gave a happy sigh and pulled his eyes open. He brought his other hand to cover Sherlock’s, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin. “Who said it?” He asked with a bit of a laugh in his voice. “The doctor or one of the nurses?”

“The doctor,” Sherlock said. “She thought we were in a civil partnership. Of course, we’re not. We haven’t had the legal paperwork done at all. But does that still mean we’re in a relationship?”

John chuckled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand again. “Sherlock, we’ve been in a relationship since I moved in to 221B. We were in an open relationship for about a year because I was still dating, then I decided to stop all that nonsense and it was just you and me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. That part made sense, he remembered when John made the choice to stop dating. And he remembered everything else. Sharing a bed, the hand-holding, the kissing, the… other things. When looking at it like that, it all added up to a relationship. Frankly, he was stupid not to notice. “So we’ve been in a relationship for two years?” John nodded. “Isn’t that the sort of thing I would notice?” He asked.

John laughed again. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes,” couldn’t argue there. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to notice most everyday happenings. “Isn’t this the sort of thing we should’ve had a conversation about?”

John’s smile faded and his face relaxed. “No,” he said simply. “This is the sort of thing that we never needed to talk about.”

Again, Sherlock nodded. John was right. They didn’t need to talk about this. They didn’t need to try and establish themselves to each other, because they already were.

 

 

**12.**

In the end, it was the rational argument that made Sherlock propose it.

“We are getting up there in years,” he said. John rolled his eyes at that. Yes, it made sense that Sherlock started thinking about contingency plans as soon as he found the first gray hair in the mirror. John had gray hairs the day they met and he never paid them any mind, Sherlock actually said he liked them.

“Alright,” John smiled. “As you wish.”

“And—given the dangerous nature of our work—if anything should happen to me, I’d want to make sure you were… taken care of.” Sherlock said.

A smile pulled at John’s lips. He reached across the table top and took Sherlock’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. “And I, you.”

They didn’t make a big deal of it. Just went and signed the papers. Sherlock groused about the waiting period, but it did give them time to get other things in order, wills, assets, and other such things. They didn’t even tell anyone, though John suspected Mycroft would receive word within the hour and deliver some sort of extravagant gift to the flat. But no one really needed to know, no one besides them.

John wore a ring. Sherlock decided that he didn’t want to, which was just fine with both of them.

 

 

**13.**

They never had a conversation about it. Never needed to. It didn’t happen because it was simply the easiest solution or anything like that, it just happened. Because the truth was, ever since John first agreed to move in with Sherlock, they’d been together.

And that was how it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> I probably got something wrong in the fifth section, but I put Tchaikovsky in because Nutcracker is my favorite Christmas tradition. So if anyone can correct me on something that I got wrong in that section, feel free.


End file.
